sparrow on the windowsill
by limonium
Summary: Perhaps affection towards one lonely, little boy is the solution to all problems. au. si. non-linear. —tom riddle jr.
1. prolouge

**disclaimer:** own nothing but oc.

**a/n:** surprise, surprise, a multi-chaptered fic (this had been bouncing in my head for _years_). and i'm so rusty it's not even funny.

**warnings:** more to family stuff here than romance. maybe there will be but i'm doubtful. also, this should not be too long since my motivation dies too easily.

**. . .**

prologue

_there is a place called home_

**. . .**

The front gate is a pitiful sight.

Glum, dark letters of rusting steel are fixed above the entrance. The railings surrounding the orphanage are tall and imposing, though the building itself is much worse. Chipped bricks has its color washed away through the years, and it looms over her, making her uneasy.

She stops and takes a deep breath, relaxing her too tense muscles, then exhaling, long and slowly.

(Why is she feeling this unbearable, pressing nervousness—)

With a single push and a metallic screech, she enters.

**. . .**

"Tom? Tom Marvolo Riddle, you mean?"

She brightens noticeably (but inwardly flinches) and nods.

"And how are you related…?" Mrs. Cole asks her, hesitantly.

"We are distant cousins. Through his mother's side." She shifts her eyes downward—_show remorse, guilt, paint it across your face_—and wrings her hands together, biting her lip. "I-I just knew not long ago that she had a son. We don't usually keep in contact due to some…disagreements in the past but," Raising her head, she meets the eyes of the woman, "family is family, no matter what."

Mrs. Cole looks sympathetic now, and nods her head in understanding with a small, sad smile. The suspicion in her posture is seeping away, barely there at all.

(This is good. Loyalty to family has always made people soft. Not all, but enough.)

"I see. Then would you like to meet him?" Suddenly her eyes widen minutely in remembrance, "Oh, but there's also something else…"

"Yes? What is it? …Is he sick?"

"Oh, no, no. It's just—just that there have been strange things happening around him and—"

"Family is family, Mrs. Cole." This is said quietly but perhaps something in her eyes had caused the older woman to pause, "No matter how _strange_ he may be."

"Right." She eases slightly—_in relief?_—and says, "Alright, Ms. Juniper. Then please follow me."

**. . .**

A bed, a closet, and a window decorates the room. It is mostly empty but thankfully, she thinks, clean.

And there is an edge to this child that a four year old should not have.

"Who are you?" His voice is small and childlike (was it wrong to have braced herself for some hissing and malevolence?) but under his gaze, she feels scrutinized.

"I am a very distant cousin of yours." She offers him a tentative smile, surprisingly somewhat sincere, "My name is Shannon Juniper."

Tom doesn't react like how most children would have. Somehow, she expected this.

Instead, his eyes narrow further, "If you are family, where have you been all these years?"

(It's somewhat heartbreaking for her to see someone so small to be so _cautious_ and so _wary_. He is too _young_.

...even though she had been the same at his age, she's a different case altogether.)

"You may not believe me," she sighs, with something like exasperation, "but I just knew about you recently, Tom. However, well, I am here now aren't I?"

The silence after her question is not as deafening as she thought it would be. And she knows how to patiently wait for the positive response (why would he even _think_ of rejecting her offer?)

"So I'm going with you?" He says, finally, with an odd tinge of hopefulness.

"Yes. You'll be living with me now, Tom. Oh, and my mother. I hope you're alright with this."

"Yes!" He reins in his glee with a flush on his cheeks. "I mean, I would like to…live with you."

She had almost laughed at how _innocent_ he is (she should have known better than to _assume_ that a child would be _evil_) and she finds that the grin stretching across her face is almost every inch genuine (because she's not that much of a fool). "Great! Then pack up and we'll be going!"

"But—But wait!" Abruptly, the boy seems anxious. It causes her one eyebrow to climb further up her forehead, questioning. "I-I also have something else to tell you." His coal irises sparkles with innocence, doubt and _longing_. "Sometimes strange things happen around me and I can control it most of the time but—"

"I know." She interrupts softly, carefully, "It's just that you have a very special talent. Do you want to know what it is?"

"What is it?" He is bright with curiosity and anticipation. She finds herself smirking again in amusement.

Leaning in, she whispers into his ear (she refrains herself from chukling as he shifts closer to her) while she lifts her wand in front of him, "Magic."

And she mutters an almost silent _lumos_ under her breath.

**. . .**

**a/n2:** so, er, what do you think? and yes, this is a reincarnation semi self-insert plus an adopt tom fic. i'll probably fix this later.

**a/n3: **i did end up fixing this hah.


	2. chapter 1

**a/n:** drabble style (thus, short chapters) because i love it. plus no update schedule yet.

**. . .**

i.

_riverside_

**. . .**

She knows that she is odd.

From the moment she opens her eyes and breathes in sweet, s_weet _air, she whispers a silent, rasp _impossible_, but it hopelessly bounces off her head as her tongue failed her like it never before.

And then her mother rocks her—gently, closely. She coos at her daughter-yet-not while her forehead crinkles and her lips turn downwards into a worried frown from the baby's lack of response.

(It's utterly _shocking_ even after days and days of moving, breathing, _living_. In response, she stares, unblinking, like an utter fool who could not get ahold of himself.)

Her very soul refuses and strains itself to chant_ dream, dream, dream_.

Every day, she closes her eyes, sleeps dreamlessly and wakes to chirping outside her window.

But there is no waking up.

**. . .**

Magic is something constant.

(Under her skin, tickling, and merely like a trickle of blood in her bloodstream but _there_.)

Her eyes, not fully developed as they are, could only vaguely make out _wands_ and _floating_ or _moving _inanimate objects with no contact whatsoever with her new parents' hands.

(And she can hear the muttered _spells_ when they are particularly close to her.)

The first time she sees, she laughs at nobody in particular (or maybe herself) because the world has gone bloody, irreparably _insane_.

Though not as much when they mentioned _'Hogwarts'_. She had went hysterical then.

Unfortunately, her parents translates her laughter (logic, beliefs, _everything_ is crashing and burning) to one of joy from the show of magic itself. Their brilliant conclusion was to entertain her with more magic which would result in more giggling and thus, her happiness (which is horribly wrong).

At that moment, she wants to wail and cry like a baby she is (reduced to a completely dependent mess of short limbs and unintelligible gurgles), but chains the urges down because at the very least, she _can_—she _will_—control herself.

Thank the gods or Merlin or Harry Potter himself that she did _not_ scream in sheer despair and frustration.

**. . .**

Her very first word (not really) had been a simple 'da'.

After comes 'ma' and she calls herself 'Annon', under her parents soft insistence, because she couldn't pronounce her s's as well as she thought she should have.

(It's eerie how close the nickname she made for herself is to the word _anonymous_.)

**. . .**

1914.

She is in Britain, year 1914.

Before Harry Potter, before Marauders, before Tom Riddle and most importantly, before _both World Wars_.

Plainly speaking, she is, in one word, _screwed_.

(After that, the newspaper _burned_ under her glare. How wonderful—her first accidental magic. It was unexpectedly violent, but she had been somewhat twistedly pleased about it.)

**. . .**

Behind her closed eyelids, she could make out the muted pitter patter of the rain as it hits the rooftop.

The man—who really is her father—closes the story book with a sigh and she could feel his smile on his lips as he kisses her forehead before bidding her a quiet 'good night'.

Silence descended in the dimly lit room, faint light only pouring out of the window, and she opens her eyes.

(How incredibly easy it is to deceive them. Sometimes, she feels torn on whether to bathe in relief or grimace in disappointment. However, she couldn't really blame them—she is a _toddler _after all.)

The wooden crib creaks as she shifts to her side, recalling briefly with a crooked smile that a year before, she could barely do so. Burying herself further into her covers, she exhales, almost silently, and drifts into her daily nap.

It has been a long time since she last hoped for it to be simply fantasy, and now it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth when she reminisces on possessing such a wish.

**. . .**

**a/n2: **didn't expect the support and kind words (for barely 800 words woah) and so, thank you.


	3. chapter 2

**a/n: **[DISTRESSED SCREAMING] I'M TOO YOUNG FOR UNI

**a/n2:** above is my form of apology. no joke.

**. . .**

ii.

_gently _

**. . .**

_They visit a grave._

_Tom holds on to her sleeve, fingers stiff and red, but he stubbornly refuses to wear his mittens. She doesn't prod because she learns not to push too far if she _wants_ to know._

_(What in the world could make him hate them so much?)_

_The snow crunches beneath each of their steps and she walks slowly to ensure that Tom wouldn't slip along the way. The air she breathes in is sharp and frigid but it is one of the reasons why she likes winter. She sighs, oddly fond, as she watches Tom's face scrunch into a scowl, struggling to walk through the snow, cheeks burning from the cold._

_Shannon thinks she should spare him, yet a part of her objects to it. Well, Tom most likely would not appreciate any help from her especially in a form of her _carrying_ him._

_Instead, she hums ("You hum, you know, when you decide to be er, affectionate." Tom states, sounding half proud and half something she couldn't decipher as she blinks in surprise. This would happen years later), and grabs his hand from the edge of her sleeve. _

_He opens his mouth to protest, tugging at his hand slightly, but she faces forward instead and says, "It's more comfortable this way."_

_Miraculously, he shuts his mouth without a word and stops pulling. Strange, but she doesn't ponder on it._

_Soon, they reach her father's grave. Shannon instinctively greets him, "Good morning." _

_She stands for a few moments in silence as she gazes down at her father. Then she bends down and brushes the snow from the top of his gravestone with her free hand. She had always felt warm when doing this. She doesn't know why._

_Tom tightens his grip and it startles her out of her reverie. She pulls him closer, and introduces him, "Father, this is Tom Marvolo Riddle. I adopted him." She blinks and looks down at the boy, seemingly anxious or perhaps embarrassed, "He's very good with magic."_

_His ears and cheeks are the same shade as a ripe tomato, and she inwardly smirks. Cute._

"_Tom," he quirks an eyebrow in question at her as she digs the pocket of her coat. There is suddenly a bouquet of red roses in her hand and he stares, bewildered. She releases her hand from his hold to pick a stalk to offer it to him, encouraging him with a light nudge._

_He steps forward hesitantly but regains confidence all too soon, walking and placing the flower on her father's grave. She rolls her eyes at his behavior as she follows after him. _

_(Just like every single year she's been here—bringing along withering flowers and talking to ghosts in her head.)_

"_Well, Father, I'll see you next year." She turns and starts to head towards the direction of the exit when she pauses, glancing back at Tom as he hurries after her._

_Shannon sighs and waits for him. She offers him her hand and he takes it after a long moment of silent contemplation. She somehow manages to quell the urge to roll her eyes again._

_They walk home, hand in hand._

**. . .**

_("Do you think mittens are uncomfortable, Tom?"_

_He flinches and answers the question with silence._

"_Try these," she gives him dark blue mittens, a color she notices he prefers for everything, "if you don't like them, that's fine. Just give it a try."_

_She doesn't get the mittens back until she discovers them in the laundry with holes on its thumbs. She couldn't help but give it a smile.) _

**. . .**

"I won't let you die." Tom declares, out of the blue. Instantly, she turns her eyes away from the Daily Prophet, eyebrows climbing up her forehead.

"Well," she says, slowly, "I don't think I would anytime soon." Eyes softening, she smirks, "What's this about? My dearest Tommy being sentimental?"

He scowls at her. It truly would have frozen anybody else, but she's too used to it by now.

Tom breaks eye contact suddenly (this is very, _very _odd because Tom doesn't like giving in at all), and glares at the floor instead, as if willing it to burn with his gaze.

Shannon is torn between sighing in exasperation or rolling her eyes. He never really changed.

"I don't like visiting graves." He says quietly, before she could speak.

She hums and stands, taking her empty cup of tea with her. She stops behind Tom's chair, ruffles his ridiculously tidy hair, and continues on her way to the kitchen.

He grumbles darkly under his breath, likely incredibly annoyed with her successful attempt on messing up his hair.

"Don't worry," she answers him, voice echoing throughout the house, "I don't like it too."

**. . .**

**a/n3:** huzzah! i'm alive? just did the time-skip thing. literally had half of the chapter done and decided no, that will not do. it's 4:55 am. i have a flight tomorrow. uni in several days. save me.

**a/n4:** if i'm ever going to edit anything, it'll take days or something. will be busy and completely stripped off of the internet.


	4. chapter 3

**a/n:** i am thoroughly ashamed (and did i told anyone that this is **non-linear**?)

**warnings:** fluff? just. fluff. okay and angst. but really since when did i warn about angst?

**. . .**

iii.

_without trying_

**. . .**

Tom comes home with a weary, pinched face and clenched fists.

Her first thought was: _'What? No.'_

What she does is half-scrambling out of her seat and awkwardly kneeling in front of the boy, her mouth shut and hands uncomfortably confused on where it is supposed to settle on.

Tom Marvolo Riddle gave out an almost silent sniffle.

Shannon's breath hitches on her throat. The inside of her head is pounding with panic and it continuously echoes a deafening 'NO' like fire alarms.

In that moment, her hand decided to snuggle itself deeply into Tom's soft hair. He raises his head to look at her, eyes slightly red. Her brain backfires and stills.

_God, please,_ she thought, _grant me a guidebook on how to raise a child._

Deciding to follow common sense, she asks softly, "What's wrong?"

He eyes the floor as if he had never seen it before after years of living in the house. Inwardly, she sighs and begs harder for the guidebook.

"Tom," she says it sterner this time and her hands found their way to his thin shoulders, "tell me."

Hesitantly, he meets her eyes again.

"I just—" he grips the edge of his shirt, "—fell. That's all."

Well, Tom didn't exactly lie. A small trail of blood from his knee is flowing downwards, almost reaching his ankle. Her wand is on the sofa and Tom is saying half-truths. Shannon cures his cut silently and he brightens visibly at that. Tom never got tired of magic, even the simplest ones.

Cute.

"Does it still hurt?" He shakes his head in response, still staring at his non-existent wound. "Then what else?"

A nearly imperceptible change in his mood. "Nothing." He says, trying to look puzzled and blank at the same time.

She curses parenting repeatedly in her head. Wait—she wasn't _parenting_ was she? Guiding maybe? Because she's not his_ mother _and merely a guardian and—

_Later._

"Out with it." she urges, feeling tired.

Sometimes she wonders why she decided to bring Tom into her life when she can hardly be responsible for anyone but herself. It didn't help that her mother hadn't objected to this arrangement at all. Perhaps even subtly encouraging her choice.

But this—_parenting?_—made her frustrated, tired, worry, exasperated and chained with responsibilities; all the things she had never wanted for herself.

And it made her…soft.

Slowly and steadily, Tom brought amusement, laughter, warmth and, dare she say it, _happiness_ into their household—the one filled with old, dusty memories nobody dared touch again. Perhaps even love.

Perhaps.

(She regains some of the humanity she had lost too, sometime along the way.)

Admittedly, it wasn't all bad. So far, it had been worth her fears and insecurities, she muses.

Though she couldn't help but wonder if a potion was able to create a child unable to love.

And then Tom mutters under his breath, "…They insulted Aunt." His voice wavers with guilt and ache but he stubbornly persists, "And you."

Magic works in mysterious ways.

But it was not the first time that it was wrong too.

Something washes over her and fills her chest—strong enough to make her _feel_ and prick her eyes. It was nothing short of a miracle because it has been a long while since she had even thought of shedding tears.

Tom looks indignant but hurt. Vulnerable.

And it serves as a reminder. _Just a boy_, she often repeats, _just a boy_.

"Hey," he flinches and her lips twitches upwards, "thank you."

Shannon surprises herself at her sincerity. Meanwhile, Tom nods, too busy clenching the corner of his shirt to notice her shock.

When Tom brokenly whispers _"they were wrong because aunt was—she was—I like her a lot—"_ she couldn't stop herself from embracing him.

Miracles. Tom Marvolo Riddle brings miracles.

**. . .**

As she ponders back, Shannon thinks that it wasn't all grief that brought them together.

**. . .**

**a/n2: **at this point, her mother passed away and shannon is stubborn and likes to avoid problems like these (more on what tom was rambling about later, i promise)

**a/n3:** i sincerely apologize for late updates but i say busy (and loss of inspiration even though there were drafts in my folders—) and also, thank you! wow, i am frankly amazed at the support i've received for such a written-in-a-whim story so aaaaaah thank you!


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